My Window a Door
by Griselda Banks
Summary: Oneshot. The one time John went back to the flat. "It was like Sherlock would step through the door at any moment." Spoilers for Season 2. No pairings.


**Author's Note: For a long time, I've thought I should write something about John and Sherlock, because from the first episode or two they burst into my heart and captivated me in a whirlwind stronger than any relationship has affected me for quite a long time. (A relationship I firmly believe is non-romantic, by the way.) And since "The Reichenbach Fall" tore my heart to shreds and left me sobbing over the last story I expected to get me emotional, it seemed the perfect opportunity. What always hits me the hardest in any story is when someone is left alone, realizing all the things he never quite managed to say, realizing that now it's too late. I tried to express some of that in this fic.  
**

* * *

_If you were gone  
For even a day, I wouldn't know which  
Way to turn  
Because I'm lost without you_

_- "Better Than I Know Myself" by Adam Lambert_

_So take my broken glass  
And help me make a window  
So I can see your face  
After all that I have been through_

_- "Watching Over Me" by Thousand Foot Krutch_

_When I could only see the floor  
You made my window a door  
So when they say they don't believe  
I hope they see you and me_

_- "Be Somebody" by Thousand Foot Krutch_

* * *

John closed the door behind him. It was the first time he'd set foot in 221B since...

He hadn't intended to come back, but when he'd left the cemetery after the funeral, he'd found Mrs. Hudson standing outside the gates with such a lost expression that he'd hailed a cab and escorted her home himself. And after ushering her inside and making sure she was comfortable with one of her knitted shawls and a cup of tea...well, it was hard to resist climbing the flight of stairs to the place he used to call home.

Mrs. Hudson had gathered up his things for him; there had been precious few of them, so they had fit into a single suitcase for him to move into a tiny flat far away from Baker Street. But all of Sherlock's things were still here, untouched since the arrest.

It was like Sherlock would step through the door at any moment.

John quickly strode into the kitchen and started preparing some tea of his own, clattering the dishes together loudly to fill in the silence. It was only when he realized he'd poured two cups and stirred cream and sugar into one that he fell silent. He stared at the dark liquid rippling innocently, let the faint steam turn his chin warm and damp. After a moment, he clenched his teeth and flopped into his chair, leaving the tea behind.

Sherlock's chair was facing him. If he let his eyes drift half closed, he could almost see the man sitting there, staring intently into space with his fingers steepled before him, like some sort of Jedi Master meditating on the destiny of the universe. Except that he'd probably never seen Star Wars since he was still laboring under the delusion that the sun went round the earth.

Well. Not anymore.

John stood up again. He had to leave. Sherlock was everywhere, like a ghost flitting from wall to wall, pacing and muttering to himself. He could almost hear the violin playing a funeral dirge. When had Sherlock learned to play? Funny, he'd never thought to ask. It seemed so incongruous with the rest of Sherlock, now that he thought of it. He had no appreciation for any kind of art when it didn't have any direct bearing on the case at hand, but still he played. He remembered the pensive look on Sherlock's face the last time he'd seen him play. It was always impossible to tell what the man was thinking, but when he propped the violin on his shoulder...it was like Sherlock's emotions were swimming right beneath the surface, close enough that a careful observer could catch a glimpse.

That last time John had poked his head around the door frame and seen Sherlock playing by the window, Sherlock looked sad.

John sighed and headed for the door, ready to head back to his flat and try to forget that he would probably have the same nightmare again. The one where Sherlock kept falling and falling and _falling,_ and he screamed for Sherlock not to jump, but then he was suddenly behind Sherlock and pushing him off the roof himself. But as John stepped into the tiny hallway, his eyes turned unbidden towards the bedrooms.

He didn't know why, but he pushed open the door to Sherlock's room and stepped in. The sheets were still thrown every which-way; Sherlock had never been very patient about annoying necessities such as sleep. John furrowed his brow, realizing that he had hardly ever seen Sherlock sleep, or even eat. He was a superhuman who ran on adrenaline, nicotine, and caffeine. He was always on the move, physically or mentally, as though standing still was a torment.

As if, when there was nothing left to distract him, it all became too much to bear.

John fell face-first onto the bed, ignoring the protesting groan of the springs, and hid his face in the pillows as if he could somehow shut out the rest of the world. The pillows smelled like Sherlock's shampoo.

Why had he jumped? John felt that, if he could just get a straight answer to that question, he could finally rest easy and begin to accept how his world had ended. Why did Sherlock go along with the lies everyone else had concocted about him? Sherlock knew they weren't true. _John_ knew they weren't true.

"_I don't have friends. I've just got one."_

Why wasn't that enough?

He should have told Sherlock long ago, but the horrible irony was that he hadn't fully realized it himself until he saw Sherlock splattered horrifically across the ground. He saw now that he couldn't go on without Sherlock. He had been lost, adrift with no purpose, until Sherlock had nonchalantly assumed they would be rooming together. To Sherlock, it had probably been a simple matter of logic and convenience.

To John, it was the breath of life.

What was he without all of this? Where could he go, who could he turn to? He had no real friends besides Sherlock. No one who _really_ understood him. He wasn't sure if it was something that had happened after Afghanistan or before. Maybe he'd been fooling himself his whole life, and only after meeting a sociopathic consulting detective who couldn't hold a single conversation without insulting everyone in the general vicinity was he able to truly find himself.

"I wish it had been me," he whispered into the pillow. If he had died, Sherlock would have been able to get over it. What was he to Sherlock? Just an assistant, a sidekick. Nice to have around so he could announce his brilliant deductions and feel good about himself. But he could get by without him. He had before, hadn't he? Just because John was his friend, that didn't mean...

"_This phone call, it's...it's my note. That's what people do, don't they? Leave a note."_ He had been crying. _"Goodbye, John."_

John cried himself to sleep.


End file.
